


Phantasm

by purewanderlust



Series: Love, Curiosity, Freckles, and Doubt [13]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, Episode Tag, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-03
Updated: 2017-03-03
Packaged: 2018-09-28 00:42:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10059734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/purewanderlust/pseuds/purewanderlust
Summary: Sam realizes exactly the lengths to which Dean would go to keep him safe.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I never anticipated that I'd be writing another addition to this series five years after the fact, but here we are. No one was exactly clamoring for it, so I don't know if there will be more, but thanks for reading nonetheless.

Sam opens his eyes and the first thing he sees is the familiar red glow of a digital alarm clock. It reads 2:46 am. He's not immediately sure what woke him, but in the next moment pain shoots through his right leg and he remembers.

The werewolf. God, he'd been so stupid. He hadn't gotten the shot off fast enough, and he was paying for it now. The only reason he isn't mincemeat is thanks to Dean's quick thinking. As far as hunts are concerned, it definitely could have gone worse.

Another burst of pain hits him and he bites back a groan. The pain meds must have worn off while he was sleeping. Sam struggles to haul himself into an upright position and finally manages to sit up. He leans back against the flimsy headboard, panting, and looks around at the bedside table, hoping to find some Percocet or something.

It's not there, which isn't much of a surprise. Dean's always adhered closely to Dad's pack it in, pack it out mentality. The meds are probably in the toiletries bag, all the way across the house, in the bathroom. Sam has serious doubts about his ability to make it there alone, but he knows he won't be able to go back to sleep as long as his leg is throbbing like this.

The last thing he wants to do is wake his brother. Dean was injured too, if his hazy memories are to be trusted. Sprained his wrist throwing Sam out of the path of the werewolf. It's frankly a miracle he wasn't killed because of his little brother's fuckup. Sam's stomach churns at the thought.

That leaves Dad, who is probably passed out on the sagging couch in the living room. He'll have let Dean take the second bedroom because he's injured, and if Sam wakes him all he's going to get is a lecture for not having his head in the game and putting all their lives at risk. Sam thinks it might actually be preferable to just power through the pain until dawn.

Before he can make a decision, his conundrum is resolved by the sound of hushed voices outside the bedroom door. The place they're staying is a piece of shit with paper-thin walls, so Sam doesn't feel guilty for eavesdropping, but he does scoot painfully back down the bed so he can feign sleep if necessary.

“What're you doing up, Dean?” Dad's voice is gruff with sleep.

Dean doesn't sound much more awake, himself. “Checking on Sammy,” he yawns. “Pain meds’ll be wearing off about now.”

“Did you ice that wrist?”

“Yes sir.” Dean answers and John grumbles an acknowledgement. Sam thinks that's all there’s going to be to the conversation when Dean pipes up again, an uncharacteristic hesitation coloring his tone. “Uh, Dad?”

John obviously hears it too because there's a measured pause before he answers. “What is it, son?”

“I--I think…” he pauses and Sam can practically feel John's impatience through the door.

“Out with it, Dean.”

“We shouldn't've taken Sammy with us tonight.” Dean blurts.

There's a long moment of silence. Sam bites the inside of his cheek, waiting for his father's reply.

Finally John speaks, measuring his words. “Sam's a little green, but he just needs more experience.”

“No.” Dean retorts and Sam sucks in a sharp breath. He's never heard Dean directly contradict their father before. “Listen, I trust Sammy with my life, but you put him in danger by putting him out there. He's only fifteen.”

“Are you questioning my judgment, boy?” John says in a deceptively soft voice that raises the hair on the back of Sam's neck. “I know how to raise my own damn son.”

Dean doesn't back down. “With all due respect, sir, you told me to always look after Sam. Letting him stand off with monsters is the opposite of that.”

John doesn't say anything in response to that and Sam's starting to wonder if he's going to blow up when Dean speaks again.

“Just…keep him out of the field for a couple of years. Until he’s done with school. He can still do training and research. Dad, he's so smart. You've seen him figure out patterns in a hunt before either of us even had a clue what we were up against. When he finishes school he'll be better than either of us.” Dean's babbling now, tripping over words as he becomes more emphatic. It's probably the most words he’s strung together in years, and judging by the permeating silence, their father is just as surprised as Sam.

John heaves a huge sigh. When he speaks again, he sounds bone-weary.

“Son, you know nothing about this life is certain. I can't promise you that we can afford not to bring Sam on hunts.” Dean makes a noise of protest, but John seems to have anticipated it and barrels on. “But...I will try to keep him out of it unless we really need him.”

Dean lets out a deep breath. “Yes sir,” he concedes and the relief in his voice is profound.

“That doesn't mean he's off the hook for drills or training.” John adds sternly. “He needs to be just as prepared as if he were hunting full time.”

“Of course, sir.”

John sighs again and Sam imagines him dragging his hand over his unshaven face. “Go check on your brother, Dean. And then get back to bed. We're heading out at dawn.”

Dean waits until John clomps back to the living room before he opens the bedroom door, which gives Sam plenty of time to pretend he's sleeping.

It's a wasted effort. Dean just ambles up the side of the bed and gives the frame a kick. “I know you're awake, dumbass.”

Sam cracks an eye at him. It's too dark in the bedroom to make out his expression. He drops his gaze to Dean's arm, which is wrapped with an Ace bandage. “How's your wrist?”

“Fine,” Dean says shortly. “How's your leg?”

“Hurts,” he admits. His brother tosses a bottle onto his chest and sets a glass of water down on the bedside table.

“I come bearing gifts.”

Sam hauls himself upright again so he can open the pill bottle. “You need one?” Dean shakes his head and they lapse into silence. Sam swallows two of the pain pills and washes them down with a gulp of water before he gets up the courage to bring it up.

“Hey, what you said to Dad just now--”

“Dude, don't.”

“--I really appreciate it,” Sam finishes like he was never interrupted. “Thanks.”

Dean shrugs stiffly. “It's whatever, man.”

“It's not whatever! You're always looking out for me. It almost got you killed today. _I_ almost got you killed.”

“You're right, Sammy. You almost got me killed.”

Sam starts. He knows it's true, but he didn't ever expect Dean to cop to it. He didn't expect it to hurt so much.

“What am I saying?” Dean shakes his head and turns to look at Sam. The light from the street lamp outside illuminates his face and he smirks. “You _did_ get me killed.” His eyes slide to black, like oil slicking over the familiar green. “Damned to eternity in hell, too. Sammy, you overachiever.”

Sam jerks back, but his injured leg keeps him from going anywhere. The demon slips closer and runs a hand through Sam's hair. It gives a sharp yank and tears spring to Sam's eyes.

“If it hadn't been for you, I'd be alive now,” the thing wearing his brother's face hisses. “Hell, if it weren't for you, Mom and Dad would still be alive too.”

There are tears streaming down Sam's face now, but he grits his teeth and tries to shove the demon away. He might as well push a brick wall for all the good it does. “You're not Dean!”

“Oh but I am,” croons the demon. “How d’you figure demons are born, Sammy? _You did this to me_.”

 

Sam jerks awake with a hoarse shout and almost falls out of bed. The sweat-soaked sheets are tangled around his legs and he struggles for a few minutes before he manages to extract himself. He sits up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed, taking great gasping breaths.

“It was a dream. It was only a dream.”

Except. It wasn't only a dream, was it? Dean is gone. Torn to pieces by hellhounds almost a month ago and the amount of time since Sam has spoken to another human being. He snuck out of Bobby's in the middle of the night two days after his brother died and he hasn't stopped driving since. He doesn't even know where he's going.

Sam drops his head into his hands. He remembers the night he dreamt about--the real night. When he'd suggested to his brother that his actions had almost gotten him killed, Dean had been quick to rebuff the suggestion. But he'd been wrong, hadn't he? Wrong then, and wrong now and Sam is so, so alone, with only nightmare versions of his brother to look forward to. Dream demons to remind him that if he had never been born, Dean would've had a happy, normal childhood and not died in agony before he made it to his thirtieth birthday.

Sam lurches to his feet and staggers to his duffle, fishing out the bottle of rotgut he bought earlier. He twists the cap off and takes a generous swig, then another. It barely feels warm going down. There's wetness on his cheeks and he swipes impatiently at his face.

He can't stand it. Sam knows Dean wanted him to keep fighting, but he can't live like this. How's his heart supposed to beat when Dean's doesn't anymore? How is he supposed to live with the fact that the most important person in his life is facing an eternity of torture, and it's all his fault?

Sam drops the half-empty whiskey bottle on the floor with a thunk. It tips over on its side and starts dripping on the stained carpet, but he doesn't notice. He’s already halfway across the room, intent on the other duffle--the one with their hunting gear. He drops to his knees and starts digging through the supplies.

Yarrow, cat bones, graveyard dirt--they have everything he needs. By the time he's finished, his eyes are dry. He stands up so fast that the room spins and piles everything into an empty takeout box perched on the edge of the dresser.

“Don't worry, Dean,” he says to the empty room, “I'm gonna make it right.”

He snags the keys and weaves his way across the room, clutching the box to his chest. His purpose has never been clearer.

All he needs is a crossroads.

**Author's Note:**

> This story is set between the end of season 3 and the beginning of season 4, immediately before Sam attempts to trade his soul for Dean's.


End file.
